


Old Promises

by panda_shi



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Captain America (Movies), DC Cinematic Universe, Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Crossover, Established Relationship, Heartbreak, Hurt Tony Stark, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Post-Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Tony Stark Needs a Hug, old flame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-18 13:10:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11291361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panda_shi/pseuds/panda_shi
Summary: “Before we belonged to anyone else, we were each other's.”― Elizabeth Noble, The Way We WereThey were young once; they didn't know better. They were innocent and knew still how to love.After the Civil War, Tony makes a call to an old friend and an old flame and asks if he meant it when he said he'd be there for him all those years ago. It isn't a path to healing, but it is something. Andsomethingis always better thannothing.ON HOLD/HIATUS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am my own beta; I could have missed some typos. 
> 
> This is an evergreen piece of work and will continue to undergo edits/corrections.

 

_If you need me, I’ll be there._

Tony thinks the words Steve leaves him with are a lie, a false promise made to others as a way to make up for their shortcomings, a comfort more for themselves rather than the recipient.

It is not the first time these words were promised to him.

And now what feels like a lifetime later, with courage that is as bitter as the half empty bottle of scotch in his hand, Tony is waiting for the line to connect with only one question he wants to cash in a little far too late. He doesn’t set his expectations too high, doesn’t think he’ll hear the answer the softest parts of him, the most broken and wounded parts of him is craving to hear. Tony had not walked out of Siberia with just a broken armor, a a wounded body and an abandoned shield.  

Steve had taken his entire heart with him, leaving Tony with nothing but broken tissue and ripped flesh, like the torn sparking wires that hang loose in the chest plate of his armor, smashed open repeatedly by the shield that is meant to protect. Steve had walked away and left Tony with nightmares and paranoia, with pulmonary contusions that leaves him breathless and tired, limited and caged and is a constant reminder that the loss and disability isn’t just emotional, but physical, too.

(You didn't think, with the way he looked at you, with the way he held you and kissed you, with the way he had said your name, the syllables brushing against your ears, not in a million fucking years did you even _think_ , that he'd leave so fucking easily. Just like that. You didn't think -- _you weren't thinking._ How could you when Steve Rogers, the man who cannot lie, had looked at you like you had been the love of his life?)

The call connects and Tony hears the smooth voice wash over him, hears single syllabled surname and returns the greeting with a question, “Did you mean it all those years ago, when you said you’d be there if I called? Were you really going to be there?”

( _Call me -- just call me. I’m always here,_ you said. But you were twenty-two and I was twenty and you had your legacy paved before you and I had mine; you were a kid, so was I. We didn’t know better. We didn’t know promises were only as strong as the person who give them. You were not strong, then. And neither was I.)

“Where are you, Tony?”

“Were you?” The question comes out with a little grit, as Tony brings the cool bottle against his forehead, feels the cool surface of the glass press against the warm and salt on his cheek.

The silence is too long.

The silence hollows out the hole in Tony’s chest, forcing the already wide cavern to rip wider still.

Tony thinks the silence is his answer and is about to end the call when the answer comes through, clear and thick around the edges.

“Yes...”

There are stars behind the darkness brought upon the forceful scrunch of Tony’s eyelids, tiny little bright dots that flare and fade like the _something_ that flutters somewhere in the numbness of his chest.

“Did it have an expiry date?” Tony asks, teeth grinding as he waits for the final bell toll.

There is a slow measured intake of breath followed by a silence that stretches too long; Tony drinks two full glasses of scotch before he gets an answer.

“No… no, there is no expiry date…”

Tony wishes he can feel relief at the words.

He doesn’t.

“I just wanted to know.” Tony says and it is about as close as to a goodbye as Tony can manage before he disconnects the call and empties the rest of the bottle. He empties another one and doesn’t remember what transcends between the second bottle and when he wakes up the next morning, slumped against the desk in Steve’s study, Steve's drawings all around the glass windows and sketchbook haphazardly open under the scotch bottles and empty glass, the red light and endless calls on hold blinking on the desk phone. 

The room should have been empty as it has been the past weeks stretching after the Civil War.

Except it isn’t.

Bruce Wayne is sitting across the table, a cup from the coffee shop across the street propped up on the armrest, long empty with the way Bruce’s fingers are holding it from the base, tilting it left and right. His expression is guarded, jaw line sharp against the sharp lines of his suit; Tony sees nothing but stoney and carefully manicured persona that is billionaire playboy of Wayne Enterprises, nothing but what the press and world sees. Bruce is watching him closely, watching how Tony looks like he's got a fist in the middle of his chest, carving and nails scraping against whatever that is left.

Tony scrubs his hands down his face and applies pressure against his eyelids, all in an effort to ward what he thinks is a hangover mirage, a day dream of something his heartless body is cooking up and making him see things that had long left him behind.

Except he isn’t seeing things. 

“Why are you here?” Tony asks, pushing off the desk and leaning against the chair, words thick and shaky, soft and barely a whisper and Tony is unable to do anything about the breathlessness. He is unable to stop the hand from coming to rest in the middle of his still bruised chest.

“You called,” is all Bruce says, something flickering in his dark gaze, something far too small to catch.

And Tony says nothing more, even when he shuts his eyes and his throat closes up, even as the cough wracks through his body leaves the sides of his ribs and the length of his spine _burning_ with an ache that will never go away, even as the warm and oh so familiar hand slides down the length of his back.

I should have called earlier, Tony thinks.  


(But you didn't.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta; I could have missed some typos.
> 
> This is an evergreen piece of work and will continue to undergo edits/corrections.

When Tony Stark meets Bruce Wayne for the first time, it is in the beginning of fall and his first week in Trinity; he is spent and a little hollow eyed from being dragged throughout the course of the week from one classroom to the other, attending classes where the children are always taller and a lot bigger than him. Trinity had not known what to do with the genius five year old that should have been stuck in kindergarten as per the age requirement and normalcy. At the time, enrollment forms did not account for geniuses of Tony’s caliber.

So when he is assigned a seat in class 1-A, with him being the only almost-five year old in the sea of six and seven year olds, Tony wants nothing more but to sink into his seat and hide from everyone. He doesn’t want to be dragged around anymore, he doesn’t want to be the only one walking into the middle of classes and having all the bigger kids _stare_. Tony knows he already sticks out like a sore thumb, with his too thin frame and sharp knees and elbows dwarfed in the school's navy and gray uniform, backpack far too big for his narrow shoulders and the mop of curly hair far too thick and not as neat and already in a disarray from all the back and forths.

The kids say nothing and continue to stare at him all the same from all corners of the classroom, having heard of the little boy who keeps butting into other classrooms, that freak genius because he’s smarter than the kindergartners and some of the second and third graders, but can’t write his alphabet straight for shit, can’t even pronounce his vowels and consonants right. Tony doesn’t dare move from his seat, doesn’t dare look away from the window on his left where he watches the spread of red, orange and gold beyond. He doesn’t have any of the textbooks or workbooks; they didn’t assign him with anything because, well, they didn’t know what to give him. The only thing they had given him after they had decided that first grade is the way to go is the school tie, far too big and knotted a little sloppily under his white collar; they had to take away the kindergarten knot-bow.

Bruce Wayne is the first kid to tug at his sleeve, history book propped open before him.

Bruce Wayne is the first to drag his table and chair next to Tony's to share his textbook and workbook, offering him a highlighter for his notes because Tony didn't have one. Kindergartners had no use for a highlighter.

Tony still remembers how the corners of Bruce’s lips twitched up into a bit of a smile, shy and boyish, polite and sweet, his handsome face and perfectly combed hair and straight tie a complete opposite to Tony's disarray. Bruce is tall and broad, walks straight and is one of the fastest during track running, and swims the best breast stroke than the rest of the class. Bruce is also liked by a good portion of the girls in his glass and the other sections, too, because Tony doesn't fail to notice how some teeter and giggle around him behind their whispering palms. He still remembers how during his first lunch by himself  in that entire week, after spending day after day working with teachers and counselors and eating lunch in an office while doing tests after tests, Bruce had steadied his tray when he had not been able to lift it off the counter. He remembers how Bruce sat across from him in a cafeteria bench where Tony's feet barely touches the ground, and he is the only boy that looks like a kindergartner dining with the rest of the juniors. He had looked so out of place that people walking by would talk amongst themselves and ask,  _aren't the KG kids supposed to have lunch at like ten or something? Is he lost?_

(You start to  _loathe_ school on your first day.)

Tony still remembers how Bruce smiles and waves at him from the window of his Rolls Royce as he drives away with Alfred, while Tony boards his Bentley, still unsure of why that odd big kid is being nice to him when everyone else is downright _mean_ and sneers and stare at him like he’s a freak of nature.

“How was your day, darling? Are you settling in all right?” Maria had asked him at dinner.

And Tony simply shrugs in his high chair, looking at his food that he doesn’t want to eat; he also doesn't want to look at his mother or father and opts to fiddle with his _ratatouille_ instead. He can feel the weight of his mother's eyes on him, excited and expectant . “It was okay. They put me in first grade.”

“Finally.” Howard mutters, looking away and turning his attention back to the the manila folder propped open on the side, as he continues eating his _blanquette de veau_.

“That’s good to hear, sweetie. Are you making friends?”

Tony doesn’t answer immediately and shrugs again, appetite completely gone. “Maybe.”

“Well don’t be intimidated by the bigger kids; you’re smarter than most and people will always be afraid of things they don’t understand. Just focus on your school work.” Maria’s gaze is warm on Tony.

Tony wishes he can give better answers every time she asks how his day in school had gone during dinner; he learns far too early to keep things quiet and just  _take_ what the world dishes out because his father always tell him to be strong, to be tough, to not be afraid of bullies because he is a Stark and Stark men have iron in their spine. They will be feared because they are futurists --  _you're a futurists, act like one_.

So Tony does and simply remains passive through all the taunts and sneers.

Deep down, he wishes he can do something about the concern and slight tightness he sees in Maria's beautiful face. Much later in his years, Tony comes to understand how it must have been difficult for a mother like Maria to be helpless in the wake of society’s cold and cruel judgment on her son who - a genius and a inheritor to billions with a family name too heavy and futurist he may be - is but a _boy._

(The coddling is always done in secret; the openness of it had stopped the year you had started school; Howard is aware of how unkind the world is -- you think he only wanted you to be more aware. Or so you tell yourself.)

But Bruce remains kind and polite _through out_ , and Tony, as a courtesy and because he learns very quickly that his academic prowess and little built is not welcome in the classroom, tries to not get in his way. Bruce doesn’t ask him why he is distant and why a month in, he doesn’t participate vocally in class, why his hand stops going up in the air to answer questions and instead rests like hollow blocks on his thigh. Bruce doesn’t ask why he refuses to answer the teacher and keeps his mouth tightly shut like they've been sown together by the second month, even when he scores near perfect _all_ the time in all their worksheets and tests. In return, Tony doesn’t ask why Bruce continues to work with him, why he continues to sit and lunch with _Mousey-Anthony_ , or why Bruce tells the kids to leave him alone, or why Bruce volunteers to be his partner in activities when no one else does. Bruce goes as far as being his partner in swimming and track, even if he places last because Tony's legs are not as as strong as the other kids and they cannot paddle or sprint like taller six or seven year old. Tony doesn't understand why Bruce tells Michael, Don and Joana to _shut up_ when they taunt him.

Tony thinks he eases some that pain that grows more prominent day by day in his mother’s eyes when just a week after Halloween, he asks, “Can I go home with Bruce tomorrow after school? Mr and Mrs Wayne asked me if I can join them for dinner today when they picked him up at school.”

The silence at the dinner table had been thick and Tony doesn’t miss how his parents exchange sharp glances that quickly melts away when Howard sets his fork down and takes a sip of his drink.

“How long have you been friends with the boy of Wayne Enterprises?”

“He shared his books with me on my first day. He is also my track and swim partner at P.E.” Tony answers, and swallows as he waits for his father to say no; he tries not to think of the disappointment that Bruce will try not to show when he tells him he can’t come to dinner. 

(You don't like disappointing Bruce; it'll be a shame when he's always helping you out in ways you cannot even begin to repay.)

“It shouldn’t be so bad, Howard… it’s just dinner.” Maria says.

The pause feels like weeks worth of waiting.

“Fine.” Howard says, picking his fork and knife once more. “Just behave yourself and don’t cause trouble.”

“Thank you, dad.” Tony says and feels his face _ache_ with how wide he is smiling. It is also the first time he manages to finish his entire dinner since he had started at Trinity. Jarvis had been quite surprised.

Dinner with the Waynes had been one of the most fun dinners he’s had in a _long_ time; the Waynes allow him to have mac and cheese for dinner even when it isn’t on the menu. Bruce even insists they share a plate of pigs in a blanket -- Tony cannot even remember the last time he had pigs in a blanket. Thomas and Martha even allow him and Bruce to have ice cream afterwards and before they head home, they stop by Central Park and allow the boys to ride the carousel. Tony remembers riding the carousel only _once_ before, and it had been his birthday, almost a year and a half ago. He had been with Jarvis then, because Howard and Maria had been stranded in Washington.

Tony remembers laughing with Bruce, their smiles as bright as the golden lights of the carousel cutting through the wintery dark of Central Park.

It is also during this dinner that Tony remembers feeling the very first tendril of jealousy, when he watches how Thomas and Martha Wayne holds Bruce’s hands between them, how they _look_ at Bruce and laugh, how Thomas' gaze had lacked that certain sharpness that never seem to leave Howard's eyes every time he even looked at Tony. Tony remembers how his hand feels far too small in Thomas’ hand, how warm it had been and wishing with all his might that maybe, just maybe Howard will also take him and Maria out for dinner and then have ice cream and go to the park after.

Most of all, he remembers thinking, _I wish mom and dad were like Mr and Mrs Wayne._

When he gets dropped home, it is Maria that greets the couple.  They are pleasant and warm and agree to come in for a cup of coffee and tea. Howard joins them in the study and the boys are ushered by Jarvis and Alfred into the kitchen, where Jarvis prepares hot chocolate and puts out a plate of his cookies between them, while he and Alfred both nurse a cup of tea. Tony remembers sipping out of his cup and Bruce suddenly asking him if he had fun.

Tony remembers saying, with the heat dusting over the curves of his cheeks and nose, “Your mom and dad are really nice. Alfred too.”

“Yours are too.” Bruce says, with a smile that boasts his slightly misaligned teeth and missing incisor.

Tony says nothing, but simply shrugs.

“Jarvis makes better cookies than Alfred.” Bruce whispers, with a grin that makes the laugh lines more visible on his young and handsome face, dark eyes _sparkling_ with mischief that quickly erupts into uncontrollable giggles that is infectious when Alfred huffs a little too theatrically.

“I heard that, Master Wayne.”

Tony had not known if he is _allowed_ to laugh, but when Bruce keeps on laughing, when Alfred grins and Jarvis chuckles, Tony finds himself smiling and grinning too.

(It had felt good.)

It isn’t that dinner though, that plants the seed of trust somewhere in Tony’s little heart that knows little to nothing about what friendship and family can even begin to entail. It is the during the last week of school, just before they close for the Christmas holiday, where their science teacher had assigned them to build and craft a plan stem cell. Tony had been the most silently excited person in the entire class, and remembers how the teacher had looked at him knowingly and _smiled_ , when he had been barely able to contain his own, already thinking of how he can build his stem cell.

Howard had even allowed him to use the small table in the corner of his workshop to work on his science project, had given him some tools to work with and even placed a hand on his head with an approving hum as Tony’s little hands worked with the glue gun with admirable precision.

Tony knows his plant stem cell will be the best looking one in class. He just  _knows_ it. 

He comes into school that Tuesday morning, tired but bright eyed because science is his first subject of the day. He remembers carrying the hard cardboard base of his model up the school's front steps, how he had waited for the rush of students to calm down in a corner, his arms _hurting_ from the weight of his project, before daring to climb the steps up to the first floor to his classroom. He remembers how he reaches the top of the landing, and comes face to face with Joana, Don and Michael. He remembers how his throat had closed up and how the pain in his chest had _swelled_ all the way up to his throat, how he had stared at the piecess of his model come apart bit by bit when Joana had _slapped_ all his hard work off his already shaky grip with an easy swoop of her arm, how Don had shoved him backwards after that, and scattering his hard work all the way down the stairwell, with Michael's smirk as wide and vicious as a crescent moon looming over him.

Tony remembers being left alone in the middle of the quiet hallway, Joana, Don and Michael's footsteps disappearing along with their scoffs of _showoff_ and _Mousey-Anthony._ Tony learns early on where his place in the world is going to be, that sometimes doing his best is not going to earn him jackshit, as he pushes himself off the ground, wipes the tears with a vicious swipe of his arm, uncaring of how it crumples his uniform and proceeds to pick up the rest of his broken project, gathering them all into a neat pile, right there in the corner of the quiet hallway, and wishing he can go home.

“Hey,” Bruce had said, his hand warm on his shoulder. “You okay?”

Tony looks at the broken pieces of his week long worth of dedicated labor and shrugs, blinking away the tears that Bruce can see as clear as day and trying desperately to make it _stop_. He's stronger than this, _Starks aren't afraid of bullies_ , even though his knees feel like gross jelly and his hands are hands _quake_ all the way up to his elbows. “Always…”

“It was Don, Joanna and Michael, wasn’t it?” Bruce asks; Tony sees anger in his eyes, sees how it flushes Bruce’s face and his entire neck, how he goes very rigid with _fury_.

“Doesn’t matter.” Tony murmurs, sniffs a wet breath and carefully stands up, picking up his broken assignment with him. Bruce doesn’t ask questions; when Miss Mackie takes one look at Tony’s project, and asks what happened, Bruce opens his mouth to tattle, to do what’s right. But Tony is quicker, and simply answers, “I slipped and fell and it broke by accident. I’m sorry, Miss Mackie.”

Miss Mackie gives him a _look_ that reminds Tony far too much of his mother's; in that moment, he feels his throat close up and he wants to _cry_. He’s never felt like a bigger loser than that very moment; the entire classroom is already talking about him and his _ugly_ assignment. Miss Mackie offers him to submit his project at the end of the day, asks him if he’d like to use study period and lunch time to work on repairing his assignment. Tony shakes his head, denies the show of favoritism. Miss Mackie sighs and tells Tony to stay back after class so they can discuss his assignment further.

When the classroom empties and Tony had made peace with the idea that he’ll be graded for a half-assed formed project, Bruce stays behind and looks at Miss Mackie in the eyes and says:

“Miss Mackie, Tony actually help me build half of mine, and I helped build his; I was having trouble with the nucleus, vacuole and mitochondrion. And he was having trouble to getting the cell walls to hold together. Can we submit mine as a final model and use what’s left of his, too?”

It takes _a lot_ ofconvincing, but Miss Mackie consents and warns Tony he won’t get his full grade because an incomplete presentation is still an incomplete presentation.

He and Bruce ends up with a B.

When Bruce should have gotten an A; it is the first time Tony feels true  _shame_ in dragging Bruce down like that. Bruce had a really good model and had deserved an A+.

“You didn’t have to do that.” Tony says at lunch time, unable to eat and feeling so sick to his stomach, even when Bruce is already halfway done with his tray.

“Why didn’t you agree to take the extra time? i would have helped you. We would have finished fixing it.” Bruce challenges, dropping his container of pudding and wiping his hands with sanitized wet wipe.

“I don’t want trouble.” Tony murmurs, fiddling the straw of his milk-box.

“They’ll still go after you, whether or not you agreed to fix up your project or not.” Bruce is frowning and some of that temper starting to bubble on the surfaces.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does, Tony!”

“ _Why_ did you do it?” Tony pushes, and watches as Bruce twists his lips and slumps on his chair, looking a little petulant.

“What they did wasn’t right.” He grouches, cheeks flushing and crossing his arms with a little too much force across his chest. The flush on his cheeks deepens, “Besides, you’re my friend.”

The memory of that moment will remain sharp and burn as bright as a candle in the dark for the years to come.

It is the first and _only_ time Bruce ever asks him _why_.

So now, as the sun sets and the orange light washes over them, hours later after Tony had washed off his hangover and returned to his space in the compound, he and Bruce sit facing the stretch of summer green, espressos between them and silence that had once felt too comfortable, but now sits like a stranger in a veil. Bruce had not said a word, even as he had helped Tony to steady himself on his feet, even as he catches a glimpse of the horrid and hideous still visible bruises on his chest that is taking far _too_ long to heal. He remains as silent as the shadow, says nothing as he listens to the hacking and wet cough that Tony can do little to control. He says nothing as Tony shakes out prescribed pill after pill, swallows them dry, and still says absolutely nothing when Tony sighs and the visible weight of defeat pushes his shoulders down.

But Tony knows, oh how he _knows_ , that Bruce doesn’t miss a thing. He is not deaf to the broken sounds of his lungs, nor is he blind to the signs of a defeated man who looks like he wants to do nothing but hide and keep his problems, his troubles and all the little broken pieces of him to himself. Bruce can see it in the shake of his fingers, how they are unsteady when Tony buttons down a crisp shirt. Bruce sees it during their small talk about work, about Stark Industries, how the words are breathless towards the end of each sentence. Tony knows that his response of, _oh they’re reviewing the Accords and hunting down those who don’t follow, you know how it is, government and United Nations and all their dramatic flair_ , is more than enough Bruce, who will read all the unsaid words in between and get the rest of the unspoken truth just by looking into Tony’s eyes.

Bruce is _not_  an idiot.

Tony knows he would not have come all the way to New York without arming himself with research. Bruce’s _thoroughness_ is his success and secret; it is the reason being the Bat Vigilante of Gotham has not broken him to a million pieces.

(Yet.)

Bruce is always prepared, always ready, the real man with the fucking plan.

Tony _knows_ that Bruce **_knows_**.

Just like how Bruce had known in an instant, almost four lifetimes ago, how Don, Joana and Michael had been responsible for Tony’s misery at every single turn.

“You didn’t have to come, you know…” Tony murmurs, looking at his espresso cup as orange recedes to purple, and the stars start to peek out shyly from the dusky sky.

“Was _he_ worth it?” Bruce counters, and if he sees how Tony’s hand fists against his knee, how his knuckles go white, he doesn’t say.

“Doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?” Tony shrugs.

“It clearly does…” Bruce counters, calm, measured, but a little sharp around the edges.

“Yeah well, wouldn’t be the first time. In case you missed it, I don’t do things in halves. Not even when it comes to—” Tony uncurls his fingers, cutting off the words and toxic babble and rot that is waiting to spill, the remnants of the infection that Steve had left behind when he had ripped everything from his chest and had left him to die in Siberia's unforgiving winter. Tony doesn't even ask  _how_ Bruce knows; men like Bruce who had gone through the pit and so many more after it learn to be observant. A part of Tony thinks it's the fact that Bruce had found him drunk and out of his wits in the middle in Steve's study, the abandoned shield resting against the wall might have been the biggest clue; Tony would not be surprised at all, if Bruce had known before his impromptu trip to New York, though.

“His loss.” Bruce says, easy, casual, and once upon a time, Tony would have reciprocated the hidden meaning behind that word. He _had_   reciprocated it, once upon a time.

But Tony just huffs a breathless laugh that is far too hollow and empty, just like the rest of him and he knows Bruce can hear the words he doesn’t say loud and clear. “Please don’t.” Tony says, dry, and almost a little callous.

“You’re right, you know? I didn’t have to come at all.” Bruce says, shrugging as he sets his empty espresso cup down and looks out at darkening sky. “But I wanted to.”

In the reflection of the glass, Tony thinks he sees the ghost of a smile that is a whisper of the charm and innocence that he remembers seeing when he had met this now-a-man before him in first grade. It isn’t as bright, it isn’t as open, but it’s there hidden under all the scars and losses, and when it peaks out just the tiniest bit, when it comes out just for Tony, with none of that arrogance and cockiness the press and the public is more accustomed to, Tony thinks it’s a little too much.

Unbidden, he thinks if Steve, and feels a little sick in his gut.

(For Steve too, had smiled at you like this, when he had looked down at you and pressed your foreheads together on countless nights, when his smaller and more private smiles had been a thousand times brighter than the ones he had flashed on stage and camera. It had been _real_ , and open and it had been just for _you_.)

It’s too much and Tony wonders _why_ in fuck’s name did he even call Bruce Wayne and hates himself a little more for succumbing to weakness when they had gone their separate ways, hadn’t they? For over a decade with nothing but radio silence in between? Nothing but business handshakes and polite smiles and maybe a drink or two between them during galas and special functions? The formality of their very limited meetings had been the final nail to the coffin, right? 

“Come with me to Gotham,” Bruce says, “I’ve got a model for a leg brace that helped me with my knee. Great support even during hand to hand combat.”

Tony is looking up at Bruce as he stands, partially finding the sudden invitation to be unexpected. “Oh?”

“Maybe you can tinker with it, suit it more to your needs. Improve it, customize it to a broader use." Bruce is sliding into his suit jacket, getting rid of his tie all together and carefully folding it into his inner pocket.

“I’ll look at my schedule.” Tony answers, nodding slowly and looking at his hands; they are clammy. “Lucius still there?”

“As sprightly as an old fox. The old man is as tough as nails.” Bruce chuckles, and moves around the table between them. “I’ll show myself out. Let Alfred know when you find time.”

“Sure.” Tony murmurs and closes his eyes when the warm hand comes around the curve of his shoulder, comforting, and so painfully familiar. It breaks goosebumps all over his skin under the silk shirt, and Tony leeches off the warmth because Bruce is about as warm as a campfire.

“You’ll be okay.” It is a statement and not a question.

And Tony smiles and looks up at him, not for the first time, and says, “Always.”

Bruce didn’t believe him then and all the times Tony had responded the same way.

He certainly does not believe him _now_.

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh, so yeah. This was fun to write.
> 
> Gosh but I do love writing Tony's backstory. I had headcanon for his backstory when writing [Yesterdays](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8671087/chapters/19877269) but had to adjust it and make changes that would suit this cross over better. I still think I'll keep most of the headcanon intact; I feel in this cross-over, his school days wouldn't have been as terrible, since he had a friend to help him get by. Will provide background and backfill to WayneStark history as the story/plot progresses.
> 
>  
> 
> ~~I still dunno what storyplot to cook up with this but will maybe timeskip to post Thanos; maybe, I don't even know.~~
> 
>  
> 
> This was fun to write. I am blown away by the positive reactions/responses to this fic. Like utterly mindblown! Wow! Thank you so much for giving this story a chance and reading this far!
> 
> PS: I normally write WAY MORE THAN THIS, easily at least 6-7k per chapter. But i'm wading like a duckling; I am sure this will gradually increase as I get more comfortable.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am my own beta; I could have missed some typos.
> 
> This is an evergreen piece of work and will continue to undergo edits/corrections.

Rhodey isn’t completely taken aback when Tony had agreed to attend the peace summit between humans and meta-humans – a new term that the Accords have recently embraced - being held in Geneva. What catches him off-guard is the fact that Tony is also attending the _reception_ that is taking place _afterwards_. With Ross hot on Tony’s heels with allegations he can’t prove and several red tapes wrapped around Tony in a vice, Rhodey is aware of how Tony had been laying low, mostly handling Stark Industries and mentoring the new kid on the team, and ensuring that whatever is left of the Avengers – if one can even call their team _that –_ remains operational.

There is a weight to Tony’s silence and more so, his injuries:

Blunt chest trauma and severe pulmonary contusions, broken sternum, fractured ribs, multiple ecchymosis, hematoma and lacerations. Ten stitches to the temple and a dislocated shoulder. The cherry on the top, myocardial contusion and a shiny new pacemaker. The area in Tony’s chest is already weakened after the removal of the arc-reactor, years of having a gap there had taken its toll.

(You remember panicking forty eight hours later, when you watched Tony collapse on his knees while helping you sit at the table for lunch. You remember _dread_ like no other when you hear his breath sound like bubbling water, how pink and blotchy red had spilled from his mouth. You had known something was up with the way Tony _moved_. You should have known better and should have insisted _harder_ on more severe medical attention when Tony had difficulties standing straight, when his hand is always on his chest trying to soothe an ache he hides far too well.

You had been in the hospital for a check-up when Tony had returned from his visit to The Raft. But you should have known _better_. He had told you that the injuries had been from the fight in Leipzig; you don’t ever remember saying the word _bullshit_ with such ferocity to his face, with such _anger_ than you had back then, because _what do you take me for, Tony, a fucking **idiot**_?

You remember the anger not ebbing at all when Tony is forced to stay in and hooked onto a ventilator. You remember feeling _livid_ when Ross and his team uses the time Tony lies there helplessly and struggling to breathe as an opportunity to investigate Tony’s involvement in The Raft breakout.

You remember _rage_ like no other when Tony refuses to be forthcoming of his injuries, making excuse after excuse, unable to look you in the eye and even counter your reasoning because you don’t remember seeing Tony taking a blow to the chest during Leipzig, you don’t remember seeing the armor shatter – Iron Man’s armor are _meant_ to withstand high amounts of pressure _anyway_ , so _don’t bullshit me, Tony_.

Most of all, you remember being _helpless_.

A visit to The Raft should not have left Tony with injuries that has permanently compromised him this way.

You know Tony is hiding something like a deadly secret; you can’t even begin to think of _how_ to ask, so you don’t.

For now.)

“What?” Tony asks, as he packs and flicks a glance at Rhodey who is regarding with a weighty gaze as Tony packs his suitcase, a little pale around the edges and a very thin of cold sweat forming around his temples. “What are you looking at, Rhodey-cakes?”

“I’m looking at _you._ ” Rhodey answers, as Tony zips his suitcase and like Rhodey has gotten accustomed to seeing, brings a hand to rub his chest, the suitcase making a soft thump as it is hauled off the bed and placed on the floor. Rhodey watches as Tony turns around to his dresser, the sound of pills shaking out of a container filling the silence of the room only to be punctuated by a slow sigh. “Tony, I’m really worried here, buddy.”

“I’m not healing the way I should be.” Tony says, shaking his head and turning to face Rhodey, walking towards the edge of his bed and sitting down. “Well, neither are you but, besides the point.”

The wheels of Rhodey’s wheelchair squeak against the tiles as he wheels closer, mere inches between both their knees. “We’ve talked about this; let it go, man. It was my choice. You know that.”

The pause is brief and Rhodey doesn’t shy away when Tony presses a palm that looks clammy against his knee cap. Rhodey won’t admit it, but it bothers him to not be able to feel that hand. Or anything for that matter.

(You’ll swallow it anyway; you’re a trooper that way.)

“I’m heading to Gotham after the summit and reception.” Tony murmurs, and looks up to see how Rhodey’s raised eyebrows and wide-eyed gaze. “Okay, Bambi, you can stop looking at me like I shot your mother.”

“What’s in Gotham?” Rhodey cannot keep the slight distaste from his syllables; Tony doesn’t miss it.

“Wayne has a knee brace model that a test group of injured MMA fighters have proven to be very–“

Rhodey sounds incredulous. “Wayne. As in Bruce fucking Wayne.”

“ _That_ one, yes. Come on, baby-cheeks, you know I have only eyes for you. No need to be jelly.” Tony waves a hand that had been on Rhodey’s knee and is barely able to suppress a flinch.

Rhodey watches with mounting incredulity at the lengths Tony is willing to go to hide whatever it is he is hiding, deflecting Rhodey’s concern with ease _yet again_. Tony knows he’s failing to hide, that everything is just oozing out of his pores without his control. It’s right there in the lines of his shoulder, the tightness around his jawline that never eases and the corner of his eyes. There had been mornings where Rhodey would find Tony sitting in the middle of the common area, knuckles white and staring off beyond the glass, sweat gleaming over his temples. There had been nights when Rhodey had woken up with a jolt, dreaming that he is falling from the sky, and in his attempt to find something to calm him down, he would just catch a glimpse of Tony leaving his room for the workshop, always hurried, always looking like he’d seen the dead. One night, after Tony’s disacharge from his pacemaker procedure, they had fallen asleep watching television; Rhodey remembers jolting awake because Tony himself had jolted awake too, loud and gasping, so ferocious in his wrenching from the arms of the nightmare he had been wrapped in that Rhodey – much to his horror, and this is an image that had seared itself to his memory – had watched as Tony had fallen with a resounding crack on the marble floor, with barely a week in between after his _surger_ y _._ And all Tony had done, once he had calmed down, once Rhodey had yelled himself _hoarse_ because he had been so, _so_ scared, he had been several feet away and _helpless_ , everything from the waist down goddamn _useless_. Rhodey had not yet figured out how to be as mobile as he is now with his injury _then_. He had his heart in his throat and his stomach sinking into the earth’s core as he had _tried_ to crawl and drag himself across the space between himself and Tony.

Rhodey will never forget how Tony had sat up from that nightmare and just _looked_ at him.

(You remember him looking at you this way _only_ once. It was about twenty-five years ago, just a little after Maria and Howard’s funeral and a little after the news of Jarvis’ death had reached Tony. You had just said your goodbye that night. You were packing up to go on your Middle East tour. You remember how he looked at you, lying under white sheets and lines hooked into his arm. You remember how _disconnected_ he had looked, a man who had been stripped off _everything_.)

And just like that, Tony had gotten up with a curse so vicious, and picked Rhodey up off the floor despite his struggle for breath, turning a deaf ear to Rhodey’s questions, to the quake in Rhodey’s voice as he settles him back on the couch, breath wet and bubbly and coming out in long and wheezy noises that makes all the bells in Rhodey’s head _ring_ in alarm.

 _I’m okay_ , Tony had said then, shutting his eyes and sinking to the floor between Rhodey’s paralyzed knees and pressing his forehead with far too much exhaustion against Rhodey’s leg. Rhodey had felt had felt the quake under his palm as Tony’s shoulders _trembled_ and his breaths had continued to come out in soft keening whines, but he doesn’t feel the moisture on his knee cap.

It is the only clue that Rhodey gets that whatever it is that’s haunting Tony, it goes way beyond Ross and the unfounded allegations he’s been trying to pin on Tony’s ass. Rhodey had assumed it had to be his guilt over the paralysis, and had tried to dissuade him of it.

And if it works, Tony doesn’t show.

(There is more; you just don’t know _what._ )

“I am not jelly.” Rhodey says with an eye-roll and no heat.

“He was here, by the way.” Tony murmurs, staring at his hands.

“When?”

“Two weeks ago.”

“ _Why?”_

At this, Tony pauses. At this, his fingers still in their drumming over his knee caps and go white when he _squeezes_ his knee caps slowly before letting go. “I called and he came.”

Rhodey is _confused_.

He knows Bruce Wayne and just _what_ he _may_ be; he had Tony to thank for that.

Rhodey had known that Bruce is one of Tony’s oldest and only remaining friend from his younger years, the only thing that truly tied him down to his roots and beginning. So when Bruce had gone and not returned from his trip to the East, when there had been complete radio silence for _years_ during the time when Tony had probably needed him the most, it had added salt to Tony’s wounds that never quite healed right. At barely twenty, Tony had not lost his parents and his guardian, he had lost his best friend, too. Because Bruce Wayne had remained missing for _years_ and while Tony had refused to believe he is dead, had refused to even acknowledge an empty casket funeral – something that had been in the talks back then – investing money in finding Bruce had been one of his first course of actions once he had inherited Stark Industries. Rhodey thinks Tony had lost hope during the years of searching, but had never stopped anyway.

Then Afghanistan happened.

And Bruce Wayne had suddenly _returned_ , taking up the Wayne Enterprises mantle like he should have had he not gone missing.

Rhodey had been planning to go to Bruce himself then, to let him know that Tony had not given up on him, in hopes that silent hidden message of _don’t give up on him, either_ would be heard loud and clear. He doesn’t get to do it, because it is Bruce who comes to him, and Rhodey knows conviction when he sees it, he knows that the look of _promise_ Bruce had given him that way, after asking about the attack in Afghanistan directly from a man who had been present at the time. Bruce had only said one thing to him before leaving with the information:

_Don’t worry, Colonel Rhodes. Justice never rests for the wicked. We’ll find him._

Rhodey and his team are the ones that find Tony.

And then the Ten Rings just ceased to exist completely; not even a lackey had walked free, and even other groups who had assisted, conspired or even individuals who had signed up to be a member had been imprisoned for life by Pakistan and Indian authorities.

The prisoners had talked about a monster with large bat wings and the strength of ten men coming down upon them.

He had been there when Tony had met the well-known playboy at a fundraiser for the army and veterans in California. It had been a cold reunion, with Rhodey standing next to Tony in his uniform and Bruce standing there with a supermodel on each arm, all polite and business handshakes, smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes. There are no gleeful _hey, you’re back_ or _oh my god, where have you been_ and not even a hint of _I looked for you_ or _I missed you_. Rhodey had stood there, along with those models and watched as years of history had come to a staggering halt. He had watched them part ways without so much of a backward glance. He had also watched Tony down several drinks too fast and when he looked across the room, he sees Bruce doing the same.

It had been the first and last time those two had been present in the same function.

The next time Rhodey sees Bruce Wayne, is during Tony’s stay at the hospital, just after the gruelling ten hour surgery of having the arc reactor removed. Rhodey spots Bruce standing in Tony’s room, beyond the glass, sees the pinch between his brows as he simply stood silently by Tony’s bedside table, as quiet as a shadow, with an expression that Rhodey thinks is a little misplaced on the billionaire’s face, considering he and Tony had no current relationship besides a few business competition in some market areas. Rhodey doesn’t even know how Bruce _knew_ about the surgery; it had been a quiet and very private affair. When Bruce sees him, he leaves, only pausing to exchange polite pleasantries. When Rhodey tells him to stick around, Tony should wake up in a bit and he’d be glad to see you, Bruce had looked quiet and swallowed past something that looks like regret and disappointment and _smiled_ the way Tony does when he isn’t comfortable and had said, _it’s all right; please take care of him Colonel Rhodes. It’s probably in everyone’s best interest that I was never here._

And that had been that.

The only time he had even seen Tony remotely show any reaction to anything related to Bruce Wayne is a little after the surgery, after he and Pepper had gone their separate ways and he had started rebuilding his suits. It had been before the fall of SHIELD, when the Avengers still housed in Avengers Tower. Rhodey remembers it because he had watched Tony lose all the color from his face, when the live coverage from Gotham city had been playing on the news, when the Batman had carried the bomb threat away from the masses, only for it to detonate. He had watched Tony lose _all_ color from his face, had watched him sit _silent_ even as the call from Gotham authorities had requested for the Avengers to be on standby. He had watched Tony stand and leave, without a word, abandoning the team to work and avoid discussion.

It is the _only_ time Rhodey sees Tony react so _strongly_ to the bat vigilante.

It is also the time when Tony had almost _slipped,_ while sipping a glass of scotch, a little after Wayne Mansion had been burned down and Wayne Enterprises return to the stock market a few months after the bomb, with Bruce Wayne smiling at the cameras after a press release, and the fall of SHIELD. Tony had said, one night over dinner, _billionaires aren’t meant to be heroes or super-secret vigilantes; I’m starting to think a man can’t be both; gotta just be one or the either._ And when Rhodey had asked him about it later, Tony had evaded like his life depended on it.

(That had been your biggest clue.)

So Rhodey begins to believe he _knows_ Bruce Wayne and keeps a closer ear to the ground. He knows what Bruce Wayne looks like when he’s reigning in uncontrollable rage, or when he walks away with the weight of loss on his shoulders.

He remembers catching a glimpse of _that_ rage he remembers seeing years ago _once_ during the fiasco in Metropolis, when Superman, Wonder Woman and the Batman had gone up against that _creature_ the Kryptonian alien ship had spat out. It is the second time War Machine had to be on standby with a disaster coming from Metropolis. Just months before that, the entire United States army up in arms when the Kryptonians had rained down upon earth and Zod had threatened the human race. War Machine had been part of response unit to contain further damages back then, too. Asgardians had not been the only alien species to go on a picnic on earth. There had been several others that world governments are hiding like a second mistress to avoid a global panic. Rhodey had even _heard_ of sanctioned use of imprisoned villains and criminals to take down a supernatural entity just less than a year ago.    

He remembers, once everything had been over, when he had been present along with several colonels overseeing the post battle operations, along with hundreds of other military men, how the Batman and Wonder Woman had carried Superman’s deceased body and had laid it on a body bag. And for just a brief moment, a mere flicker, Rhodey had med the eyes enshrouded by the black cowl, sees what looks like _regret_ and _disappointment_ and remembers blinking, tilting his head at its familiarity.

The look comes and goes, the Batman turning his back and leaving and disappearing before people notice and _react_ to him being there, taking advantage at seeing Superman lie motionless on the ground. Dead. The loss of a national icon loss far too soon, only to be followed by another loss when Captain America had gone rogue.

It had been too _familiar_.

Rhodey’s gut had churned and rang bells at that brief and rather insignificant exchange. It had been the last time he ever saw the Batman in that close of a proximity.

He also doesn’t cross paths with Bruce Wayne either.

So Rhodey is looking at Tony _now_ , and thinking about everything he knows about Bruce, everything he has come to understand by gut about who he is and maybe, _what_ he is, and asks, “Are you _sure_ about this, Tony? About Bruce.”

Tony doesn’t answer immediately, but when he does, the smile that tugs across his lips is a little cracked around the edges. “He’s good people. Always has been.” Tony looks up then and swallows with a little difficulty, “You can trust him. More than anyone.”

“Just like Steve?” Rhodey asks, and he knows it’s a blow below the belt. He knows what Steve’s departure and refusal to sign the Accords run deeper than what Tony is showing on the surface. Leipzig had confirmed that. Rhodey had been aware of how _close_ Tony and Steve had gotten after Loki, had watched the happiness slowly creep under Tony’s skin, and it had almost felt foreign.

“No.” Tony says, looking away for a moment only to look back up and responds with a conviction so strong, that it catches Rhodey of guard. “ _Better_.”

It is not an answer Rhodey had been expecting.

\--

The summit goes off without a hitch, with songs and rhymes about getting along that Tony knows is more yack than substance. Ideas are good, getting people on the same page is even better; getting the ball to actually _roll_ is something else. Everyone knows that summit is a formality and that it is the reception where there real talk and negotiations truly takes place. By the time the evening rolls around, Geneva is blanketed with sheets of rain beating upon the glamor of oncoming vehicles of the bourgeoisie. Tony is greeted by uniformed ushers holding out large umbrellas as he exits his Bugatti. The cameras are flashing as photos are taken of him in his crisp and bespoke tailor-made all black Desmond Merrion tuxedo and the flash of red of his Christian Louboutin dress shoes.

He had arrived just after Bruce Wayne himself, and the shout of a fashion reporter gets Tony’s attention, just as it does Bruce, who is standing at the top of the landing, in his Ferragamos and custom Dior three piece tuxedo. 

“Mr Stark, can I get a shot of you and Mr Wayne together?” The young and excited female photographer asks, flushed and harried and looking a little wet from the rainfall. “Please? For Savoir Flair’s best dressed bachelors?”

Bruce had an eyebrow quirked at Tony, and Tony just _laughs_ as he hurries up the steps and takes his place next to Bruce, shoulder to shoulder. “Make it snappy.”

The flashes blinds him momentarily and he is waving at the extremely excited photographer as Bruce turns and ushers him into the dry and golden gleam of crystal and marble, soft music playing from the quartet filling the vast and domed reception area. There is a faint fresh smell of angel’s breath hanging in the air, as servers walk around passing out sparkling flutes of rose champagne. All around, men and women alike are dressed in their finest soirees, some of the higher ranking military officials also present and in uniform. There is nothing new or interesting about the gathering that Tony has seen before.

Bruce passes him a flute as he takes a sip of his own.

“You’re alone tonight.” Tony murmurs, as he casts a wary glance around the room.

“Not entirely.” Bruce says, holding his gaze, a ghost of a smirk tugging around the corners of his lip.

Tony had to roll his eyes, and means it. “Oh Bruciepuss, you _know_ that doesn’t work.”

“I think it does.” The words flow easily, almost airily past Bruce lips. “Alfred tells me you’re planning a visit.”

“After tonight. Bad time?” Tony sets his empty flute on a tray passing by, hands going into his pocket.

“Never better.” The smile on Bruce’s lips is _almost_ soft and secretive, before it tugs to something that is more familiar to the tabloids, when a tall woman in a lush green Dior dress walks up behind him, hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

She is easily, probably one of the most beautiful women Tony has ever laid eyes upon.

Tony also knows exactly _who_ she is. One cannot hide a face _like_ that. Bruce isn’t the only one who does his homework. After the monster the world had dubbed as Doomsday, he had done his homework. Bruce isn’t the only one with his fancy toys and brains.

“And this must be your plus one and not-entirely.” Tony asks, smiling and holding his hand. “Hi, Tony Stark. Stark Industries –“

“Iron Man, yes!” The smile is _almost_ bewitching. Almost because Tony thinks he’s seen brighter and knows that the most beautiful smiles are also the ones who can crush your soul just as easily. “Diana Prince.” Diana says, taking his hand in a firm handshake. “It is an honor and a pleasure to finally meet an Avenger in person.”

Tony is speechless for a second and feels something swell in his throat at being called an Avenger.

“Diana is the Louvre’s most prized Curator in the Department of Antiquities. You’ll find that she is very well versed in relics of old.” Bruce supplies, which only succeeds in making the media smile on Diana’s face tighten. “And as you _know_ ,” Bruce says, with a very pointed look; Tony is at least glad that Bruce doesn’t insult his intelligence, “she is a very good colleague of mine.”

Diana’s smile turns sharp, and is almost a smirk.

 _Ah._ “A pleasure, Miss Diana.” Tony says, as his hand makes its way back to his pocket.

“A friend of Bruce’s is a friend of mine.” Diana says and picks up two flutes of champagne and hands one to Tony, toasting his glass.

“I like you.” Tony says, and that earns him a chuckle that sounds like silver bells before a murmur breaks out and the attention of attendees turn to see the King of Wakanda stepping into the glamour, shaking hands with a few other royals and officials.

There is a moment where Tony locks gazes with the young and handsome newly crowned king, dressed in all sharp cuts of his modern suit and a swathe of color of his homeland sitting on his shoulder, two of his infamous guards – the feared Dola Milaje – standing like sentinels on both his sides. Tony doesn’t look for long and turns his back on the king as he downs the rest of his champagne in one sharp gulp, like a shot of hard liquor, and wishing with all his might that it had been something stronger.

It had taken effort and a very – _annoyingly -_ long time to crack the origins of the burner phone Steve had sent him. He knows who had given Steve assistance to hide, knows that the threat the not crowned king _then_ had subjected his entire country to by _assisting_ two wanted fugitives. He doesn’t know if Wakanda _still_ houses those wanted fugitives, he doesn’t have _proof_. And he had asked himself that if he did, would he have brought it forward.

(You wouldn’t have; you would have looked the other way not because a part of you wants Steve to be safe, despite _everything_ , despite how it _hurts_ , but because the actions of _one_ man should not weigh down upon an entire country. You know what it’s like, for people to call you a monster. The Wakandans do not deserve the wrath that will rain upon them for their king assisting in wanted fugitives. You’re above being tattletale.)

“Mister Stark. Mister Wayne.” T’challa greets, shaking both their hands and Diana’s too, “And Miss Prince.”

“Your highness.”  Bruce greets.

“It is an honor.” Diana adds.

“Wassup kitty-cat,” Tony greets, and keeps his chin up, face neutral. “No crown?”

“Only for ceremonies. Crowns tend to attract far too much attention to my head than I deem comfortable.” T’challa’s smile is easy, charming, words like honey.

“No, you wouldn’t want _that_.” Bruce answers and the way the words roll past his tongue, the way his gaze _sharpens_ , and the way Tony notices how Bruce had tilted his chin just _so_. Tony hears the threat loud and clear and it is enough to confirm his suspicions. Tony suddenly feels _sick_. “Unwanted attention is always trouble, in my book.”

“You sound like you speak from experience.” T’challa says, unperturbed, undisturbed, his face a perfect mask of polite royalty, even when both his guards shift stances and straighten in their lush gowns of orange and red, standing guard at the threat they hear too.

“Have you seen what they’ve written about _me_?” Bruce _chuckles,_ well-rehearsed, perfectly timed. “How did you use to say it, Tony? Lies and slander?” Tony doesn’t answer. “We Gothamites tend to look at the world with a little grain of salt; you get accustomed to that kind of thinking when you’ve lived in Gotham for a long time. After all, man is not what he _thinks_ he is; he is what he _hides_.”

T’challa visibly stiffens then and Tony thinks he’s going to suffocate, with how his chest is threatening to _burst_. The smile from Diana’s face is gone, as is Bruce’s, the Dola Milaje and T’challa.

“Oh but Mr Wayne, the best secrets are always the most twisted.” T’challa _quips_.

And Bruce’s grin is roguish and handsome, enough that it gets attention from some of the ladies nearby. “Well,” Bruce leans close and drops his voice a note, “Best if people don’t find out about my red room, then. The _scandal_ would be _outrageous._ ”

T’challa _laughs._

“Mr Wayne, I am almost disappointed we didn’t meet earlier. I would imagine having you as a friend and an economic ally would benefit us both. I hear good things about Wayne Industries; Mr Stark, is a _lucky_ man to have you as a friend.”

“Oh you have _no idea_.” Tony says, and feels his lips tug to a grin when Bruce punctuates him with a look that is partially and measurably smoldering, partially a warning and is punctuated with a wink.

 “ _Clearly_.” T’challa murmurs and lifts a hand in greeting to someone a few feet down, momentarily distracted.

“Come, boys, let us leave his highness to attend to other subjects. There is no rest for the royalty.” Diana says.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” T’challa says and with a dip of his head, he is gone and walking deeper into the ballroom, shaking hands along the way.

“Did you just _threaten_ the King of Wakanda, Sugar-Bruce?” Tony asks, clicking his tongue as he turns and takes Diana’s offered arm to the soft auction gallery.

“I would never!” Bruce tries to sound innocent, as he sets his empty flute on a tray.

“We believe you.” Diana says with a roll of her eyes.

They find themselves standing across the room to the open gallery, staring at a eighteenth century sculpture with hefty starting bid tag when Tony thinks it looks like it belongs a pre-school’s art room. He is distracted however, by the careful eyes of the Dola Milaje following his every move. From across the room, as an usher greets the king and escorts him to his dinner table, their eyes meet again and hold, and Tony only hears bits and pieces of the conversation and light banter between Diana and Bruce, offering a hum of agreement to something he doesn’t quite hear.

“You two are conspiring against me.” Bruce says, with a bit of charming flair that can make anyone flush. Tony feels the warmth of Bruce’s hand on his shoulders, and then Bruce is _too_ close, leaning over to _whisper_ in his ear, warm and soft lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “But wasn’t _that_ a lot _fun_?”

Tony feels his breath catch, and his heart starts to race for all the wrong reasons, like the two decades between him and Bruce had not existed at all. Tony can’t stop the pull of a _grin_ from his face.

There is satisfaction when the look T’challa wrenches away from his direction looks _terse_.

“Oh yeah,” Tony says and for just the briefest moment, he doesn’t feel quite alone with Bruce’s hand on his shoulder; even Diana’s attempt to convince him about being the owner of the horrid sculpture provides some sort of warmth.

For a moment, Tony feels just a little more steady.

(God, I’ve missed you.)

-

Tony had always been fickle when it comes to inner strength, even as a child. His courage and bravery had stemmed from not wanting to _show_ fear. He is not like some of the children in school, who takes to speaking up and shoving bullies back when they’ve had enough. He isn’t like Bruce who is not afraid to argue and use his intelligence to reason, but isn’t above getting his knees and hands dirty if need be. He had seen Bruce square off with bullies older than him who thinks he is easy pray, what with him being such a pretty boy and a heartthrob to a lot of girls.

Tony is not as a brave as Bruce.

And never has been.

But Starks have iron in their spine and Tony is too afraid to bring disappointment back home. So he keeps standing despite the shoves, the pushing, and yanking of his collar and backpack by the three most disliked people in the classroom. He says nothing and keeps walking forward, even if his uniform is rumpled and his hair is a disarray from whenever Michael, Joana and Don would shove him back and forth amongst themselves. The days are long and hard, but they _pass_.

Tony will never forget the first week he returns to school after the spring break, dread heavy in his heart even after he smiles and kisses his mother’s cheek and tells her he is glad to go back to school. It is a crisp morning outside and they are to run track that day, the entire section of 1-A dressed in their running shorts, sneakers and t-shirts. The girls are doing stretches with Miss Johnson, while Mr Davis gets the boys to practice their knee raises and push ups. Tony finds a spot in the back of the group and does his push-ups to the best of his ability. He is hoping to be faster and stronger than some of the children that day because he had spent his entire spring break practicing his push-ups in his room for this very reason. He manages to do ten, already falling behind from the rest when he feels someone kick his toes from under him and he falls face first into the hard ground.

“Anthony, are you all right?” Mr Davis asks, and Tony feels the _burn_ under his chin from where he knows scabs will form.

“Yes, Mr Davis.” Is all he says, dismissing the pain he feels. A glance behind him tells him it’s Don. Tony is shaking when he gets back on his toes and hands, placing his towel under his chin to finish his push-ups.

He gets knocked down two more times before he sees Bruce loom behind him, like a threatening shape.

Tony is the last to finish his push-ups and he tries _not_ to cry as he feels his knees shake. Despite his best efforts, once more, he is the last to finish and the class had to huff and wait for Mousey-Anthony.

“Hey, wanna be my partner in the relay?” Bruce asks, like he always _does_ during track and swimming.

“You’ll lose again.” Tony answers, not meeting his gaze and fiddling with the threads of his towel.

“I don’t care.” Bruce shrugs. “Besides, you said you’ve been practicing, right? Maybe we’ll come in the top ten today! Just do your best, all right?”

Tony remembers the flush that had felt as hot as the summer sun on his skin. Bruce is missing two teeth when he grins at Tony; it does not make him any less handsome and any less friendly.

“I’ll try.” Tony answers and moves with the motion of Bruce clapping him on the shoulder.

Tony had meant it when he says he will try.

They take their positions on the track, Tony pumping himself up and telling himself that he can do it, that he _must_ do it, for Bruce’s sake because Bruce has spent the past seven months being a loser in track just for being his partner in relay races. Tony tells himself that his runs around Stark Manor’s garden all of spring break should give him some sort of edge. Tony crouches and exhales softly only to feel his breath catch in his throat when Michael takes the spot next to him, blue eyes sharp and lips turned up in a smirk.

Mr Davis blows his whistle.

And Tony watches as Bruce _sprints_ ahead of everyone else, legs fast and steps strong and sure. Bruce puts seven feet between himself and the rest of the class and Tony’s fingers wraps around the metal baton before he dashes forward too.

Tony runs like his life depends on it, the cheering from the rest of the class a roar in his ears and he can see it, he can see Mr Davis and the finish line.

Except the finish line careens to his left so sharply and Tony feels his world tumble when the rest his classmates catch up with him and feels Michael’s arm and weight _shove_ him off the track.

The world _tumbles_ several times, like the spin of a dryer. Tony remembers feeling panic when the baton slips from his fingers, feels disappointed when he hears it clang on the track field. He remembers the _burn_ in his arm and knee, scraped and torn open from the force of his fall, bleeding and bits of dirt and fine gravel sticking to it.

Tony remembers _crying_ at the pain, remembers feeling horrified for _crying_ , and _panicking_ as Mr Davis and Miss Johnson picks him up from the ground and rushes him to the school’s infirmary. He remembers sitting there like a quaking leaf, panicking and trying to talk over Mr Davis reasoning, _crying_ and _crying_ and telling him it’s not Bruce’s fault that he lost, that he should get an A for effort and performance, that it’s his fault he messed up. Tony remembers Miss Johnson struggling with trying to calm him down, remembers shaking under her soft hands as the nurses try to clean the wound on his knee and arm.

And then he’s pushing them away, telling them that he’s fine, he’s fine, _please let me go back to the classroom, please don’t send me home, please, please I’m not a loser, please let me go back to class, pleasepleasepleaseplease!_

They send him home with the school doctor’s note and report and Jarvis is there to pick him up.

Tony remembers sitting in the car in his dirty shorts, t-shirt and sneakers, thick swatches of bandage and gauze round his left knee and the entire length of left forearm and a portion of his elbow. He remembers Jarvis taking him to his pediatrician as a precaution, remembers doing an x-ray and then reaching home too early and the middle of the day. He remembers sitting on top of the closed lid of his bathroom’s toilet seat, as Jarvis kneels before him and carefully wipes him down with a towel. Tony remember crying again, remembers Jarvis embracing him and carding a warm hand down his head because his parents had left that morning for London, a little after he had gone to school.

“Why am I so weak, Jarvis?” Tony asks, the words _hiccupping_ past his lips. “I hate it! I’m always last! I’m always making Bruce lose! I’m always falling and I hate being so little!”

“You are not weak or little, Young Sir.” Jarvis answers and pulls away to steady him.

“I’m a nobody!” Tony screams out, with so much conviction quaking out of his lungs.

“None of that!” Jarvis admonishes and Tony bites his lower lip. “Young sir, I find that it is better to be a little nobody, than an _evil_ somebody. You have strength others do not possess; you have more kindness and dedication and _understanding_ in your little hands than most will ever possess in their life. So no, Young Sir, you are most certainly not a nobody.”

Tony swallows past the hiccups and stares at his hands, lined with red from his fall and from when he had struggled to do his push-ups. “I’m a Stark.”

“No, Young Sir. You are _Anthony_. You are _more_ than your family name.” Jarvis says, and reaches up to dab some of the dirt off his cheek. “Don’t forget that.”

 Tony doesn’t for a while.

He spends the rest of the day practicing piano instead, playing the entire stack of music sheet that belonged to his mother and filling the house with music that is sometimes steady and sometimes shaky.

That afternoon, Alfred shows up with a worried looking Bruce at Stark Manor’s doorstep; Tony is playing the last Chopin piece when he feels arms circle him in a tight hug and the smell of sweet custard pastries reach his nostrils.

“I was worried! They sent you home! Are you okay?” Bruce asks, eyes dropping to arm and knee and widening at the sight of the thick bandages.

Tony merely smiles, and nods, “Always! I’m a Stark!”

Tony doesn’t see how Alfred and Jarvis exchanges looks at his response.

He spends the rest of the afternoon in the small study with Bruce, catching up on what he had missed from school. They drink warm milk and share custard pastries for afternoon tea as they do their homework together.

Bruce ends up staying for dinner with blessings from Martha and Thomas; after dinner, Tony shows Bruce how to play the piano and then they both watch Pinochio.

It is the first time Tony has ever had a friend visit him at the manor.  
  
(It had been the best night of your life.)

\--

Tony examines the leg brace model before him, turning the scanned projection of its components left and right in Bruce’s study. He takes them apart and sees something that he can use to improve on Rhodey’s leg braces.

“Well, I can’t say it sucks.” He says, and points at a joint connection. “Especially this.”

“It’ll take some getting used to; it isn’t completely painless.” Bruce answers. The morning sun is glimmering over the lake’s surface and pouring through the glass windows, illuminating the modern décor of his study.  The lake house that Bruce has taken a liking to is all modern and boasts no whisper of some of the baroque elements Tony remembers Wayne Manor possessed. It is a complete opposite of Bruce’s home growing up, all clean, sharp and modern lines. “No injury is.”

Tony waves off the projection, hologram disappearing as he picks up the brace from the table, scratched and well worn. “How’s the knee?”

“I manage.” Bruce murmurs, the pause far too long.

“Perhaps you can remind Master Wayne that his body isn’t as young as it once used to be. He doesn’t listen to me _anymore_ , Master Anthony.” Alfred says, coming in with a tray of coffee and mugs.

Bruce _rolls_ his eyes.

“Don’t worry, Alfred. The Pokemon he’s collecting is meant to ease the pressure off his old bones.” Tony quips, accepting the offered cup of coffee with a nod of thanks.

“ _Old?_ ” Bruce _challenges_.

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I hurt your feelings?” Tony asks, and watches the smirk disappear behind the mug.

“So much, Anthony." Bruce can be quite dramatic when he wants to be.

“Hah!” Alfred _huffs_ , leaving the coffee pot on the serving table and tucking the tray under his arm. “Well, Pokemon are a step-up. At least he’s a team-player, now.” Alfred whispers to Tony before walking away.

“I heard that, Alfred.” Bruce calls out, shaking his head in fond amusement when Alfred merely waves a hand and leaves them alone.

The silence falls like a warm blanket before them. Tony is halfway done with his cup when he says, “Team-player is not always a good thing, you know?”

“No.” Bruce doesn’t look up from his cup. “You were just unfortunate. You never did choose your friends well.”

“Nor my lovers.” Tony admits, and hears the stiffening of Bruce’s breath. He looks up and finds Bruce looking at him with an unreadable expression. “Word of advice? Arm’s distance. Boy bands aren’t what it’s cut out to be. What _are_ you calling yourselves, by the way? Do you have a name yet?”

“… Justice League.”

Tony cannot help it.

He _laughs_ at Bruce’s face until there are _tears_ in his eyes.

  
TBC

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhhhhhh. IDEK? Can you tell I'm floundering a bit in terms of direction and I'm just backfilling here? Ugh, self!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I had stumbled upon WayneStark and just could not help myself. I may continue to build up on this. I feel there is so much potential with these billionaires. I am forever doomed to write broken StOny fics, i feel. Ugh.
> 
> But yeah, may continue to explore this cross-over. I've never done crossovers before.
> 
> Thank you for reading and giving this cross-over ~~and hot as hell pairing~~ a chance!


End file.
